Dark Moons' Sorcery
by IBrooks-Clarke
Summary: A decade after the beginning of the Civil War, tension again begins to rise amongst the people of Skyrim. Emerging sorcerer Nerien Deyrith of Windhelm, child of both Man and Mer, holds no place within the society which thus far has only sought his destruction. Turning to the side of magic strictly forbidden to those who possess his power, he attempts to create for himself a legacy.
1. Chapter I - Child of Azura

He loved the city at night. None of the midday bustle and clamor of the crowds going about their business within the meandering alleys and passageways. Only the dim glow of dying street-lamps against the blackness revealed life within the stone palisades, grey and tired, yet as sound as the day they first grew to enclose the city. Breathing in the cool, crisp breeze, which rose skyward from the frost-bound plains, he observed the incandescent flickering of lights, which danced in the heavens above. He savored their beauty and grace, regarding each blaze of brilliance as it fought the grasp of darkness before fading delicately back into Oblivion.

His attention was drawn down into the alleyway below him, and his wary gaze foundered amongst the shadows before coming to rest upon a decrepit figure emerging from the rear door of the tavern. Leaning heavily against the smooth stone brick wall the intruder shuffled hesitantly towards a dull street-lamp, which struggled in vain to repress the enclosing blackness. From his secluded position in amongst the spires lining the facade he caught a glimpse of the drunkard's face; red and blotchy from the debauchery of his evening, eyes skittish and agitated, as though he knew he was being watched.

With a slight motion of his hand, the pitiful glow of the lamp quivered and died, leaving the alley in pitch darkness. He smiled upon hearing the sharp intake of breath, the hastening of the footsteps. Though neither he nor the intruder were able to see past an outstretched hand in the shadows, he no longer required his vision. Instead, he focused intently on the sound of hard leather soles against the cobblestones, and let his unseeing gaze follow their progress towards the archway.

He chuckled softly, and noted the sudden pause in the rhythmic thudding of the footsteps. He could envisage the expression of pure terror upon the drunkard's face, and the anxious thoughts which must be, at this very moment, darting through his mind. But he had decided that the time for games was over, as the burnished lights of dawn were just now beginning to creep over the horizon towards the city. A decisive movement of his wrist sent the intruder to his knees. The man cried out in pain and confusion, as he could not identify his assailant. Again he was forced to the rough cobbles, a distressed moan barely escaping his lips before being swallowed by the darkness.

From above he watched with self-righteous contentment, a sly smile playing on the edges of his lips. Then, with a lithe movement borne of grace and elegance he leapt from the parapet and landed silently beside the fallen body of his victim. He soon discovered that the man carried little of value, much to his disappointment, though he was quick to realize that a goodly portion of what he may have possessed had been spent inside the tavern. As gold and jewelry were of little value to him, items which may have required further examination were few and far between.

Swiftly he turned and vaulted from the cobbled street up onto the second-floor balcony opposite. He hung for a brief moment on the sturdy wooden balustrade before continuing his flight upwards. Resting again upon the palisade he scanned the city's skyline for signs of movement, and upon finding none, proceeded to cross the distance between wall and roof with an agile leap. In this fashion he passed over lanes and alleys in a blur of swift and elegant movement, before coming to a smooth halt upon a walled stone terrace high above the street.

Only the muffled whisper of cloth being swept aside heralded his entrance, and reluctantly he crossed the dim space to a pair of oil lamps mounted upon the wall. Calmly he exhaled and felt the faint shiver travel up his spine, as a small flame flickered into life at the tip of one finger. He touched it to the lamps' wicks and almost at once a brilliant golden light expelled all forms of shadow from the room. Turning on one heel he faced the slender figure reflected in the mirror and lifted a hand to release the thick braid secured atop his head. In a cascade of bright silver it fell down beyond his waist, a few stray threads coming to rest in front of his eyes which, even now, appeared an intense shade of indigo in the lamp-light.

He stood to admire his dignified form and swept the offending strands of silver from his face. The expression upon his lips soured as he glimpsed the keen edges of his ears, which refused to remain hidden beneath his hair no matter how hard he tried. To him, they were the aspect which continued to set him apart from the others. And he hated them. His skin, which assumed a pale ashy-grey hue in the golden glow was scarcely different from that of anyone else, though in the daylight he could still be easily told apart from the local Nordic population. From his father he had inherited the dark blue, almost black eye colour of the family. And the lean, almost delicate curve of his body was a gift from his mother; though neither she nor any her kin still residing in Morrowind could match his grace and elegance.

With a soft sigh he lay down upon the supple mattress, and pulled each layer of quilted fleece over his head. The warmth of the coal-heated coverlets was a welcome contrast to the bitter cold of the breeze outdoors, and sleep arrived swiftly to his restless mind.

* * *

He awoke to the touch of a similar cool draft which ebbed slowly in through the open balcony door. It smelt of the re-awakening of fires within the city's many hearths and the cool scent of freshly broken pack ice. Only the faintest of murmurings could be heard from within the mass of alleys and streets, as the lights of dawn had barely begun to grace the towering palisades and fill each corner of the city with fresh brilliance. Hesitantly he relinquished the warm embrace of the covers and shuffled across the room towards a russet wooden cabinet which sat in the furthermost corner, and was almost obscured from view by various piles of books stacked high up against the walls. With care he removed a few volumes from the peak of one heap and placed them atop another, before sliding open a single drawer and removing a pale blue tunic and leather belt.

Drawing the coat carefully over his head, he freed the hair that had become trapped beneath the material and drew tight the ties which were laced across his chest. Swiftly he smoothed the loose knots from his silver mane with a small, white comb made of pale bone, and wove each strand into a long braid which hung from his shoulders almost to the backs of his knees. His attire was made complete by a thick, jade-green woolen cloak and a pair of plain deer-hide hunting boots. Unlike the footwear worn by almost all of his peers, they allowed for swift and agile movement; a skill he clearly required, as his lithe figure was ill suited to any form of physical strength.

Descending the staircase to the lower level of his family's abode his footsteps scarcely made a sound, though he no longer needed to attempt to hush his every movement. Silence came naturally now. The yeasty aroma of fresh bread and some form of broth drew him forth towards the dining area. He lingered for a few moments before striding over towards where the cook was continuing to stir a large pan of thick stew. He paid little heed to the other occupants of the banquet table, though sensing his approach, the chef turned her wrinkled old face towards him and nodded a greeting. She arranged a small tureen of soup, along with a couple of pieces of thickly sliced loaf on a serving dish and placed it in his hands with a smile.

Taking his place alongside the head of the table he began to eat, tearing small pieces off the great chunks of thickly-buttered bread and dipping them into the broth.

"That all you're going to eat, boy?" His father chuckled, raising an immense spoonful of soup to his lips and slurping it noisily. "Need to fatten you up. Put some meat on ya' bones".

Despite his slightly dismal mood he felt a smirk beginning to grow across his face.

"Leave him be, Ilras. And please, stop being so _disgusting_!" Dainty mouth pursed, his mother swiftly became a force to be reckoned with. But from the opposing side of the table, an increasingly loud gulping sound could be heard. "Filthy man. You Nords know nothing of table manners." She mocked, a slight blush beginning to creep onto her ashen-grey cheeks.

"Don't mind me, love." He replied, attempting in vain to conceal a grin. Turning to the silent form beside him, he sniggered. "You'll be headin' up to the Palace again this morning, eh? Heard old Wuunferth's got a surprise for ya!" But his son merely raised an eyebrow and continued to pick pieces from the bread. The woman sighed.

"You'll have to deal with them sooner or later, Nerien."

"Pay no heed to 'em, boy. You're just as much of a man as any, no matter what breed 'ya happen to be."

He rose from the table and handed his half-eaten platter to the chef. The old woman appeared disappointed at his lack of interest in her cookery, but his fleeting smile assured her that his sudden departure had nothing to do with the offerings. As the door swung open and he stepped out into the brisk morning air, his ears caught only the tail end of a sentence.

".. Poor boy. It's hard on him ya' know. Bein' around the others, and they still tease 'im. Half an' half aint' a great way to be."

His footsteps left shallow imprints in the freshly-fallen snow. Walking only in the thin strip of sunlight, which spilled down over the rooftops, he felt the morning's first touch of warmth. Passing the alleyway which lead down into the city's lower quarter, he felt someone's gaze upon him. Coming to a halt in the middle of the street he cast a glance over his shoulder, in time to note the muffled gasp and sudden flash of colour as a figure darted back under the archway. He smiled, and continued up the winding stone staircase, still aware of the girl's eyes following his every move. He liked to play this little game with her; though she never realized that he was aware of her presence. Only once before had she come within a few feet of his turned back before he noticed, and the expression of terror upon her face when his eyes met hers remained even now within his mind.

Hastily she emerged from the alley and cleared her throat.

"Good.. good morning, Nerien." She stuttered, smoky cheeks flushed pink.

He turned and welcomed her with a polite smile. Though she wore only a simple grey frock and worn leather boots, her petite form appeared unusually captivating in the morning sunlight. He noted her thick, auburn hair free of its clasp, where it fell in bronze ringlets to frame her face perfectly, and the curious reddish tint to her lips. He chuckled quietly; the colour seemed far too adventurous for such a modest young woman.

He loved watching the girl squirm beneath his steely gaze. Nervously she wrung her hands together and ran her tongue over her lips. Fiddling with the small steel amulet fastened around her neck by a leather band, she stammered;

"You are going up to the Palace, yes? For your lessons, I mean."

"Yes." He remained motionless.

"Could you... If you don't mind, I mean, would you meet me... after?"

Her voice could barely be heard over the growing clamor of the city, and her cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink against the freshly fallen snow.

"I won't keep you waiting, I promise!"

He nodded in agreement, struggling to conceal the growing smile, which continued to spread across his face. Excitedly she spun and dashed back down into the alleyway in a flurry of snow.

* * *

Entering into the courtyard, which lay before the Palace, neither of the guards posted in front of the thick iron doors paid him any heed; nor did they have reason to, as he was a regular visitor.

The atmosphere within seemed warm and humid when compared to the cool breeze outdoors, and although the Palace had long been the city's center of operations, not a single presence could be felt. He cast a cautious glance towards the barren feast-table and richly carved Jarl's throne, and satisfied that he could pass unnoticed, darted across the great hall to a tall egress which sat halfway along the stone facade. Worn with age, the iron-studded door creaked gently as it was pushed open.

At the distant end of the corridor the sound of hushed voices could be heard. As he moved closer, they grew loud enough for individual sentences to become clear. Pausing momentarily at the entrance to the high-walled study, he caught the tail ends of a few remarks.

"Too weak, girl. How are 'ya supposed to fend 'em off, if you can't keep up a simple spell?"

And then an irritated sigh. "You're making 'em too strong! How am I supposed..."

His sudden entrance halted the argument, and drew the critical gaze of the room's occupants. From the corner of one eye he caught a flicker of movement and turned to catch the large silver bundle tossed in his direction. The pair of blackened steel gauntlets felt heavy in his grasp, and he sensed a burgeoning sickness in his stomach.

"Ready y'self, boy. Wards up."

Reluctantly he tightened the rough cowhide bands about his wrists, and raised them protectively across his chest. Standing his ground in the center of the room he drew from within a surge of power, and felt it course throughout his body, before releasing it into the cool air. Though it was now barely visible a few feet before him, the ward's protective skeleton radiated raw energy as it drew sustenance from his still form.

With ease his shield pushed aside the halberd of ice aimed at his forehead. It sped onwards and shattered against the wall, in a spray of brilliant shards. Breathing heavily he released the barrier and felt his mind become slightly blurry for a few moments. Across the room, beneath a thick-woven sable hood, the old man smiled. Not a mocking, cynical expression, but one of satisfaction and amusement; he was pleased.

"Not bad, boy. Though you'll need to make it a bit stronger to keep back anythin' they'll throw at 'ya. And I've told you before; cover yer' head, not 'ya chest. First place anyone will try 'n hit."

Much to the distaste of the room's other occupants, he chuckled, and their revulsion only grew at his second announcement;

"You two- 'ya could learn a couple 'o things from this 'un!"

"Ya can't compare _us_ to the 'alf-breed! We belong 'ere, but what gives 'im the right..." The girl's sudden outburst came to a sudden halt as she caught a glimpse of the old man's face. The thick furrows which lined his brow had grown deeper, and in the stark spell-light his bluish-grey eyes glinted dangerously. Although his voice seemed calm and controlled, the expression upon his face betrayed barely-suppressed rage.

"He has every right. You two..." He repeated, this time gesturing stiffly at the pair of figures standing frozen with terror against a cabinet stacked full of small glass bottles. "Move your sorry arses out of my sight."


	2. Chapter II - The Book of Blood

With disgust the old man watched them leave. Shaking his head in contempt he turned and shuffled across the room to a tall cabinet, which sat awkwardly in the corner. He muttered a brief incantation, and the charms which stayed its locks slowly faded. From a shelf high above his head he withdrew a thick leather-bound time; the heavy layer of dust which had accumulated atop its spine testified to the age of the volume. Scouring the bindings clean with the corner of his sleeve he placed it gently into Nerien's outstretched palms and stepped back, a knowing smile upon his lips.

"What… is this?" The young man enquired, his face a picture of curiosity. The sorcerer gestured towards the volume's distorted cover, and hesitantly he opened to the first page. A single marking in the center of the paper drew his attention; printed in thick, glossy ink the colour of jet, it displayed a crest of four skulls. One Man, three Mer, each with an expression of both terror and ecstatic laughter. In amongst this arc of horrid relics a pair of serpents writhed, in and out of eye sockets and caved-in jaws. All over, the effigy was spattered with a slick substance reddish-ochre in hue, which appeared to smolder and seethe where it blended with the somber brush-strokes. Upon closer observation, he noticed the entire page was soaked with the viscous liquid, which ran off the parchment in swift rivulets.

Unbeknownst to him, the old man had stood studying his apprentice's expression, as it alternated between intrigue and abject horror. He remembered his first glance at the old tome; as a young mage, a promising student of the College. It had seemed a strange and exotic thing, and an object of formidable complications. In the beginning he had refused to acknowledge its power, and so it has forced him to yield, to merge his blood with that of the Elders. He hoped the young man would not be so unwise.

"The Book of Blood, boy." He muttered. "Powerful magic, beyond any 'ya could possibly imagine. Old magic." Watching him leaf slowly through the next few pages, the sorcerer chuckled at the perplexed expression, which had formed upon his face, as he realized all pages but the first were completely blank. "Doesn't know 'ya. It'll stay empty 'till it does."

"And how will it… _know_ me?"

He paused, studying the suspicion in the eyes of his student, and attempting to recall his own feelings on the day of his Trial. Too much, and he feared the younger man would panic.

"By 'yer blood, boy. 'Tis the Book 'o Blood, when all's done."

"… It needs my blood?"

"Aye."

Within Nerien's mind, feelings of curiosity and terror fought for control. His ashen-grey skin now bore striking similarities to the pallor of a corpse, and his breath had become labored and abrupt.

"And if I refuse?" He glanced up at the old man, and bit his tongue in an attempt to control the anxious shuddering. But to his dismay, the sorcerer's gaze wandered from his own to the floor.

"Ain't no refusin'. Once 'yer own eyes have seen it…" He shook his head, and rubbed his temples with the palms of both hands. "It don't forget."

* * *

With a dull thud the tome hit the thickly woven woolen rug. Raising his hands above his head, Nerien backed swiftly towards the room's exit. Though as soon as he passed the threshold of the study, small tongues of the bright, rust-coloured liquid began snaking out from within the pages. Slithering across the flagstones they grew closer to his petrified form.

"Ain't naught you can do, boy." The old man warned.

"_No_." He replied, before turning on one heel and fleeing back down the corridor. But as fast as his legs could carry him, the tendrils of blackened blood flew quicker, until they were suddenly upon his slight frame. Twisting about his ankles like a wreath of frigid thorns they pulled him roughly to the floor. He struggled for a few moments before collapsing upon the callous wooden floorboards. Recoiling back against the wall he winced as the barbed threads cut into his calves, then crawled forwards onto his chest.

At the opposite end of the hall, holding himself upright against the doorframe the old man stood and beheld the scene which was unfolding in front of his eyes. Even he, resilient youth that he once was, had not been able to defy the tome's power for such a lengthy period of time. Though his outward appearance portrayed complete calm and authority, he felt terrified. What if the Book should deem his sole student unworthy? What if it tired of the young man's continual resistance? Determinedly he strode forward towards the figure writhing around on the floor and lifted both palms before him. Muttering a prompt incantation he sensed the struggle at his feet cease, as his victim became paralyzed.

Though Nerien could not quite understand why the sorcerer had crippled his body, he was glad for the numbing sensation, which had begun to spread from his breast outwards to each of his limbs. No longer could he feel the ripping and tearing of the many tongues, though he was still aware of the fresh blood pooling around his head. From his ungainly position pressed up against the wall he could observe the slick tendrils as they slid around his neck, and then across his cheeks, leaving a trail of delicate lacerations in their wake. With horror he felt the blackened threads slither between his tightly pursed lips, and he resisted the urge to retch upon discerning the bitter, putrid taste of rancid blood. To his relief, Nerien felt himself begin to lose consciousness, and within seconds his body was slumped motionless on the floorboards in a viscous puddle of his own blood.

Above him the sorcerer watched as the remaining shadowy threads slunk into the inert body of his apprentice, and the frantic choking grew quiet. With an agonized sigh he knelt down beside the boy and drew him into his arms. To his surprise, the lithe figure weighed little, and so he had few issues bearing it into the study, where it was laid carefully upon the old man's own chaise. Silently he drew a thickset wooden armchair alongside the cot and bent to examine the shadow-like markings, which had begun to appear upon the youth's forearms, snaking their way towards his chest like thin rivulets of ebony ink. Hesitantly he drew back his own sleeve to observe the minute lines of text slowly disappearing, leaving the flesh beneath raw and pale. Even now the livid tendrils flowing from Nerien's palms were forming into rows and rows of letters, words of every language imaginable.

Though most of the young man's blood had been consumed by the tome's enchantments, the deep lacerations still remained over the entirety of his body, and so the sorcerer set to work, closing each wound with a swift flourish of his wrist. But as he was hardly an adept in the art of restoration, angry red scars remained entwined across the boy's flesh like so many florid serpents. Satisfied with his work, he rose and ambled stiffly over to the leather-bound tome, which still lay open upon the rug. Instead of deep, red-wine coloured blood; his_ own_ blood, coursing within the skull's head crest, a rich crimson liquid had taken its place. Though he doubted the script would still be visible to him, he leafed through the text to discover only pale, ashen-grey symbols; now unintelligible, just lines of random letters.

* * *

A desperate wheezing drew his attention to the awakening figure on the opposite side of his study.

For a few moments Nerien simply lay and stared at the peaked ceiling of the room. He had regained full control of his body, but still he felt numb and stiffened, as though he had not moved in decades. With great effort he parted his blackened lips and spoke.

"What… did you do to me?"

The sorcerer did not reply, only sat silent upon his armchair. Raising one arm above his face, the young man studied it soundlessly before speaking again.

"What is this? This _evil?_"

"Tis no evil, boy. But nor is it… good. 'Tis up to he who wields it, to decide which purpose his power serves. No-one may decide for 'ya, though they may like to try."

And then silence for a few moments.

"I can feel it."

"Aye, boy. It ain't a… _benign_ form 'o power. But it won't try 'n hurt 'ya, so long as you don't resist it. Believe me, I tried many a time." He folded his arms and sat awkwardly, feeling the young man's eyes upon him, though the latter's gaze remained elsewhere. One of the Book's _gifts,_ he recalled; seeing without seeing.

"_You _tried?"

He exhaled sharply.

"… Aye. I tried."

"Then what I… I have now, used to be yours?"

"Enough questions. Sit up, boy, let's 'ave a look at 'ya."

Though he doubted his apprentice possessed the strength to move more than one limb, let alone remain upright, he propped the stiff figure up against the headboard. To his alarm, the youth's face appeared almost deathly pale, and his eyes a stark contrast; the black of night against haggard, sallow features. The skin itself seemed stretched over his arched cheekbones, and the deep purple bruises and scars did little to improve his looks. For a second the sorcerer worried about what others would think of the boy, and so he went to his own wardrobe and pulled a dark maroon, hooded cloak from its peg upon the door. Although he doubted the scarring would ever fade completely, the cowl would hide the greater extent of the damage. As for the markings; within a few days, the child would almost certainly learn to hide them well enough, if not make them disappear altogether.

With a desperate groan he collapsed back onto the mattress, unable to support his own weight against the sturdy oak framework.

"Up with 'ya, boy. Time to be headin' homewards."

"I cannot move." He murmured, wincing at the thought of shifting his position again.

The sorcerer sighed heavily, and wondered if the Book had been a little too… _overzealous._ And his own attempts at patching his student up had not been entirely successful. But the boy could not remain cooped up within his study. Someone was bound to discover him, sooner or later. Stooping to examine the shelves of tiny glass bottles he selected one filled to the brim with a thick, murky-brown liquid, sealed at the cap with red candle-wax. It had been difficult to replicate, this particular liquor, and taken almost a decade to perfect. But he had always known that at some point, it would be required again. Melting the seal carefully with a small tongue of flame, he emptied the flask's contents into a dull, silver-plated chalice and offered it to the motionless figure.

"What is this?" The young man questioned, suspicious now of anything he was presented with, especially if he could not comprehend its purpose.

"Drink."

"What _is_ it?" He hissed angrily.

"Without it, 'ya cannot move. And you 'aint stayin' here. Now, drink."

Hesitantly he cupped the vessel in his palms, and raised it to his lips. The liquid within appeared to broil and seethe, and his every instinct warned against attempting to consume it. Swiftly he drew back his arms to toss it across the room, as far away from himself as possible, but the old man forced the cool metal to his lips. Choking and spluttering as the foul liquid ran down his throat, he writhed desperately in an attempt to fend off his assailant. Then suddenly he began to retch, and felt the viscous substance stream over his cheeks and soak into the furs lining the chaise. The sorcerer withdrew, wiping his hands against the coarse hem of his robe.

"By the Gods, boy." He muttered, as the convulsing form below him slowly grew still. With great effort, Nerien pulled himself upright, and staggered to his feet. The old man stepped forwards to support his shaking figure, but he motioned for him to keep his distance.

"Stay away from me."

"Ain't nothin' I've done. Not pleasant, that." He shook his head, gesturing towards the battered vessel. "But it'll do you good, mark my words."

"Stay away." The youth repeated. With the assistance of numerous items of furniture he stumbled from the room, still clutching the grey chalice. He paid not heed as the sorcerer re-appeared behind him, only to arrange carefully the hooded robe about his shoulders. In this ungainly manner he crossed the flagstones of the great hall, and slumped against the iron doors. Using the entirety of his mass he pushed them open, then collapsed again upon the icy pavement, much to the surprise of the guards who stood shivering in the evening chill.

"You right, boy?" The hulking figure to his left enquired, though he appeared more shocked at the young man's appearance than curious. Much to Nerien's dismay the intruder moved closer, lifting his visor, and peered cautiously at the markings, which snaked across the youth's fair skin.

"What in Oblivion 'appened to you?" He shuddered, distancing himself from the young man struggling to pull himself upright again.

"I… I'm fine." Nerien croaked, pushing the guard aside with a strong shove to the chest. Though he muttered some foul curse under his breath, he allowed the boy to pass.

* * *

With difficulty he shuffled his way through the heavy snowfall, the immense effort causing him to struggle for breath. So preoccupied was he with his own chaotic thoughts, he failed to notice the lean, swift shadow creeping up behind his back.

"Nerien!"

Her shrill, excited tone drew his attention so swiftly that he had little time to reach before toppling forwards in surprise. He hit the densely packed snow with a muffled thud, and attempted once again to right himself.

"Oh my… I'm so sorry!"

Hastily she bent to grasp his wrist and help him to his feet. But as soon as they touched an intense burst of magical energy slammed her back against the palisade. Her head hit the rough stone with a sharp crack. Before he could regain control of his own body, Nerien felt himself rise effortlessly, and raise one hand to seize her forcefully by the neck. Holding her petite form high above his head with almost terrifying strength, he saw the fear reflected in her dark, jade-green eyes and sniggered quietly.

So easy it would be, he contemplated, to simply snap her pretty neck now. No noise, no fuss. So simple.


End file.
